Patch-Job
by Blue Da-Ba-Dee
Summary: A loose one-shot. Episode 1. Once Bigby's off on the chase again, Holly and Grendel get on top of tending to the one nastiest part of the mess made in the fight.


He ain't even trying to put on a tough act right now. Not for me, and sure not for himself.

That's fine by me. It's all around fine. Woody took off when the wolf did. For right now, it's just him and me.

And Bigby's mess, but I guess he counts in that. I sure count the pool cue and the coat rack part of Bigby's mess.

You'd think that was his style – sucking it up, telling himself he's even madder than he was, getting himself into some kindova blood rage – but it's not; apparently, this thing that he's doing made it into the Mundy telling of his story. Beowulf's. Gren wasn't used to what it felt like, being on the losing end of a fight. When it happened with Beowulf – when he felt himself giving out, and knew he was beat – he let up with a horrified, horrifying howl. Then Beowulf pulled his arm clean off.

That was the first time it happened. I dunno what kind of noise he made then, the one that the Mundies wrote about, or how _much_ noise he made, but this, if it wasn't what they really heard – I wouldn't think of blaming him for. Maybe it's not so bad the second time. I've never lost an arm before. For all I know this is an underreaction. I saw how Bigby did it – he jammed his fucking claw into the scar Gren got from Beowulf to get it loosened up and then he pulled away everything around it. I'm a troll. I know what that sound was: good, gross ripping meat. The sound of a Fable taking _prey_ apart.

Makes you freaking sick, hearing it from someone you know.

I see Gren's put his glamour back on. He knows what we're gonna do – it'll be easier that way. I'd try anyway, if I had to, but ol' Grendel's even bulkier than I am. This is maybe ten times easier. Could be more, I don't know – I don't keep a registry with my friends' weights on it. Not that I'm thinking that's something anyone would do. Maybe _someone_ would, but I can't fuckin' imagine why.

And he's still making that noise, it's just… dried-up, now. It's a whole lot thinner, and scratchier. Not all – you know, out from deep in the bottom of huge lungs. It makes it sound like he's calmed down a little. I don't know if I like that, though – with as twiggy as he is like this, it just makes him look a little more wrecked.

That, and there's not a lot of bulk on a human, unless you're built like Woody. He's missing a whole long, skinny arm's worth of size.

Fuckin' Bigby.

Anyway, I get my glamour back on, too. I come out from behind the bar to go get him. He's picked himself up. He's watching me coming, much as he can with the way he's trying to keep his head down. I can see it from here, his shoulder's shaking.

Looks like the bleeding's already stopped on the other one, which I kind of thought would have happened.

The mess could be worse, I guess.

A mess could always be worse, where and on _whom_ the wolf has been chewing. He comes in sniffing, he chews everything up, and then he's out get back on the trail, _fuckin'_ Bigby…

I'm stopping for a sec, just behind him. He doesn't look, or move at all differently, or anything. So I get the sign on the door turned. I don't lock it, I just turn it to keep anyone who doesn't need to be in out and I'm right back in to check how we're coming along.

This time, I get right on the ground next to him. I give him a minute again, and there's my cue. He turns around just a tiny bit, looking at me like _I'm_ the Big Bad Goddamn Wolf, and then he's back at it. He knows I'm there, though, and that's all I was looking for. I'm not gonna blindside him by trying to move him.

Speaking of which, it looks like those clawmarks are already closing up, so there's that, too.

So I get the arm he's still got, and I get up to brace him while I loop it over my shoulders. He's uneven, but he's upright. He's putting half his fuckin' weight on me, damn – thinking of that arm, I forgot about that kick in the leg he got. I'm putting an arm around his back. Now we're going. Taking it slowly. I tell him what he already knows: that we'd better get him cleaned up, and he'll be fine.

He's still keeping his head down. He's still making that noise, the poor guy. Shitty fuckin' night having to hear this, having to see him like this, either of us having this on our plate tonight. He's hurt. It makes me mad.

"Hey," I say. I'm smiling, but I dunno if it looks right. It feels kind of sore, but he's not looking, anyway. It's the idea that counts. He'll get that. "Cut out the blubbering. All right? I ain't your mother."

He doesn't actually stop right away. He makes this weird, low fucking moaning sound. Next, though, I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.

The smile wants to be there now. Some part of it does.

"Like I said, you're gonna be fine."

This next one's not a moan but a sigh. We're almost at the back.

I get him through the door. I sit him on my cot and I sit next to him to check if he's staying upright on his own. He is. I head back out to the bar to get his arm, glamoured back up with the rest of him.

The _look_ he gives it. "Oh, geezus," he says.

I say yeah, and tell him to take his coat off. He does it, if with more of the noises. Drops the coat off behind him and makes it easy to get to the damage.

I don't have high hopes for this. I wouldn't know how he got it back on the first time he lost it, but he's known for this, the missing arm. By the Mundies, you know. We are our stories up to some point, whether we like it or not.

So I'm not looking forward to trying it, since it's not gonna be comfortable, but damned if I don't gotta try something.

I press the arm up against its stump, and yeah, Gren winces. I keep it there a little bit. I breathe loud and slow in case he follows. He does – closes his eyes, too. We wait a bit.

I let go.

The arm drops off right away.

He groans, and shakes his head. "I don't got a sewing kit," I tell him. "And I dunno if there's any other way to hold it still for however long it would take."

"It wouldn't _do_ any good."

"I guess we could call Swineheart, if we have to."

"Yeah." He's growling, like a – like some kind of a wounded fucking animal. "Like they're gonna fuckin' extend us some kind of insurance fuckin' deal for the Sheriff's goddamn mess."

I give him a frown for that. He's got a point. A solid physician costs money and he's gonna have to burn gas to come driving out of Fabletown proper. However we split the bill, one of us is probably gonna wind up screwed over on refreshing their glamour.

"I dunno," I say. "Maybe if Woody hadn't called Bigby off, he would've fucked you up harder; maybe they wouldn't be shitty enough not to save a life because we can't pay."

He snickers and I smirk at him. He knows I like nothing about the idea whether I'm talking out of my ass or not.

It goes as a reminder that there's an upside to this being exactly the way it is. We're handling it alone, just the two of us. I know we can't fix it. He knows we can't fix it. But we're not suffering for it being right where it is, us being right where we are, now. It's under our control.

"Well. Good to hear you can already laugh again."

"Agh, come on, Holly."

"Come on and do what?" I push that smirk at 'im a little more. "You ever had to regrow a limb before?"

"Yeah, once. Not the arm, though. Not even the left one."

"Okay. Then your right arm. Think it _will_ grow back?"

"I'm not _just_ armless. I had to have had an arm for Beowulf to've ripped it off. So, yeah. It'll probably come back," he says. I'm not sure how sure he is. "Fuck that Beowulf. Fuck the… fuckin' B. Wolves. Fuck every asshole who ever called himself B. Wolf."

"I don't think I've ever met a bee wolf but I'd probably hate one."

He gives me this look.

I say, "Bee wolf. Like – a wolf that makes honey and has a stinger or some mythical shit that probably doesn't exist. Joke."

"Oh. _Ohhh_," he says. "That's actually what Beowulf means, you know. 'Bee wolf'. It's supposed to be like a bear." And then he says, again, fuck 'im.

Beowulf never left the Homelands, Gren says. He was killed by a dragon. And I'm more than fifty percent sure Gren's mom didn't, either. I don't know since when – during the Exodus or before. I wouldn't pry over stuff like that.

I grab the first-aid to finish cleaning the stump. He starts fussing a little again but not long.

We're done. He says thanks. That and "shhhit".

"You holding down a job right now, Gren?"

"'Right now', nope. Doesn't look that way." He's glaring at the spot where his right shoulder should be. He looks a lot of things right now, mad being one. I can tell because I tend to be right when I think I might be all of 'em, too.

"Money-wise, at least I'll keep you covered on drinks."

"You don't gotta do that."

"I'll put it on your tab if I have to, Gren, all right?"

I give that a second's rest for nothing but the effect. I don't want to say this that loud. Not like some big, immediately-urgent thing. It's… really not exactly about this. The quiet gives you time to float a couple steps back.

"Just don't stop showing up all of a sudden. Got it?"

He's thinking of exactly what I was. "Not for nothing."

"I got you taken care of."

"You, too."

I get up to stand in front of the doorway. Also to back off of the subject. "The coat. Got yourself covered with that?"

The pun wasn't intended.

It's turning out the answer is no. I help him out with it on his right side and then I help him up. He gives another unhappy look – this time to his hanging sleeve. I'm out and back in in a tick and I fold it up and pin it.

He looks at me, and he looks back at it and nods.

Not a lot has to be said. You handle what you can handle. You count on what you can count on.

Something's got to give these days, though. I might've tested him, there. For me – nothing against him. And I appreciated the answer, and he appreciates that I appreciated it.

I count on it, and that as for this we're handling it.

* * *

><p><em>Cross-posted to AO3.<em>


End file.
